


One Last Stab At It

by sahem62896



Category: Oz (TV)
Genre: Missing Scene, Other
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-01-31
Updated: 2015-01-31
Packaged: 2018-03-09 21:01:00
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,182
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3264254
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sahem62896/pseuds/sahem62896
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Schillinger's trying to keep it together as Crazy Beecher antagonizes him. How long until he explodes?</p>
            </blockquote>





	One Last Stab At It

**Author's Note:**

  * For [blackchaps](https://archiveofourown.org/users/blackchaps/gifts).
  * Inspired by [Boy Meets Boy](https://archiveofourown.org/external_works/95435) by justblackchaps. 



> GreenPhoenix is right... writing from Vern's POV is tough! I need to have a shower and look at pictures of bunnies and kittens. Even so, it was fun despite the use of racial slurs and epithets I would never use myself.  
> At any rate, I own the rights to nothing related to Oz, Disturbed, or The Lawrence Welk Show.... this is for fun

 

_"It seems your having some problems in dealing with these changes..." —Disturbed  
  
_

1.  SONG OF SCHILLINGER

Schillinger left Sister Peter Marie's office and walked back to Em City with his tail between his legs.  Christ, when wasn't he walking around with his tail between his legs these days?  The last ten months or so had been almost unbearable, and it was only getting worse as the days passed.  Not only had the riot in Em City delayed his parole hearing almost another year, but in the weeks or so since his return to McManus's little corner of hell, he had been antagonized by Beecher almost every day.  And while Schillinger was at pains to admit that it was possible that he deserved everything that Beecher was doing to him, he couldn't fucking believe that now he was getting cut down to size by a four-foot Catholic spic with a degree.  Never mind that she was also a shrink who could help the parole board view him more favorably with a letter of evaluation; the little wetback was more annoying than a pebble in his shoe. During this morning's session, she had told him that it was "common to feel emasculated as he tried to hold himself to a higher standard of behavior in the months preceding his parole hearing, especially since he'd had a substantial amount of clout in Oz up to that point."  He had nodded humbly, understanding every word that she had said, but even so, he could have killed her just for using all those big words.  Why'd she have to do that?  Was she rubbing in his face the fact that she was not only smarter than he was but also a minority woman in a position of power over him?  He wasn't sure, but it had to be one or the other.  Fucking _had_ to be.

"The real question," she had continued, "is what you're going to do with these feelings if you, by chance, aren't paroled, Vernon."

He considered it and a horrible shudder had gone through him as he realized that he didn't know.  He had indeed been a man who had been respected and feared in this place, and nobody would have denied it.  It didn't even matter that he was now having to put up with things he never would have tolerated from anyone inside or out of prison just to get on the good graces of the strangers who would assemble to determine his fate.  All it took was one nigger, one kike, or or one pinko too many on that board and it would all have been for nothing.

_Shit._

The sense of defenselessness he felt was demoralizing, and each look in the mirror only made it worse.  When he first saw himself with an eyepatch, he secretly loved the look.  He thought it made him look fearsome and that it would guarantee him some more jizz in this place (not that he needed it back then).  Hell, he'd even laughed at the dumb pirate jokes that the other members of the Brotherhood and the bikers had made.  But then Beecher had shit on his face, and the fucking thing became just another reminder that he had been bested by his own prag.   Dr. Nathan, whom Schillinger felt was the only spic around here that deserved a little respect, had sent him off to Benchley Memorial to see what could be done to restore his sight.  He had hoped that after the surgery the feeling of being an old horse that needed to be put out to pasture would go away, but it hadn't.  Yes, he was grateful to have his eyesight back, but the sense of triumph was short-lived.  Very few people were intimidated by or even impressed with the ugly discoloration around his eye or the new scar that distorted its shape into something that normally would have been chilling to behold.  By day's end, it was nothing more than a message to him and everyone else that no matter what happened from this point forward, he was going to have to hunker down and take it if he ever wanted to get out of this fucking place.  Schillinger hated nothing more than hunkering down and taking it.  He always had. But he hated the thought of not being released from Oz even more.

And then, of course, there was Beecher.

_The fucker!_

It just burned him up to realize that the guy had acquired some jizz at his expense... at the whole Aryan Brotherhood's expense, actually.  The blow to both his own reputation and the Brotherhood's had been bad, and what Beecher had done to Robson after that had not helped either.  However, what bothered him more than any of that bullshit was the fact that Beecher was now a full-fledged bug. _Crazier'n a shithouse rat_ as his stain of a father had been known to say.  These days, Beecher was prone to spitting out perverse little nursery rhymes, smiling like a maniac, and speedwalking everywhere he went.  When he laughed, he either tittered or cackled.  When he talked, it was through bared teeth and each sentence was tripping over the one that preceded it.  When he wasn't doing any of those things, he was either sitting in a chair smoldering with bottled-up rage or putting on some kind of an obnoxious floorshow for the hacks and the other inmates.  Just last week, for example, he had come out of the shower naked and dripping wet, waving both of his middle fingers in the air, and telling on-lookers and cat-callers to kiss his swastika.  His towel hadn't been stolen by anyone; he'd left it there on purpose.  After calming everybody down as much as he could, McManus had returned the towel to him and told him to get dressed.  Beecher had taken it without a word, but less than a minute after McManus had left, Beecher had bolted out the door of his pod with the towel twisted tight in both of his fists.  He had gotten dressed as McManus had told him to do, but his clothes were stuck to his body because he hadn't dried himself off.  He started skipping the towel like it was a jumprope while singing another nursery rhyme — one that had been modified to make a mockery of Schillinger.  Many people had laughed, but a few of them had just watched in stunned silence.  Schillinger had been among the latter group, and he was mortified not so much by the song itself but rather by the way it jangled his already frayed nerves.  At night after the lights went out, he could still hear Beecher quietly singing it and listened in horror and embarrassment as it echoed through the cavernous main quad of Em City:  _Sing a song of Schillinger, sing it loud and long...  He thought he'd have Toby killed, but guess what? He was wrong!  'Cause when his eye was opened it was full of glass... Next thing you know, there'll be a Star of David on his ass!_

Schillinger had wanted to say something about that whole episode to Sister Pete, especially since Beecher had accosted him the day before and reminded him that he had access to all of her files, including the one with his own name on it... the one that would go to the parole board.  But instead he had kept his mouth shut.  He was no snitch, but there was more to it than that.  He also knew that Beecher would have lost his job, been reprimanded, and then, having realized who was behind it, would have retaliated violently. There would have been a big knock-down-drag-out brawl, and that would have looked just as bad to the parole board.  So again, he hunkered down and took it.

 _If only I had minded my own business and let that fucking jigaboo Adebisi have him._  
    
On more than one occasion in the last ten months, Schillinger had overheard people saying that Ryan O'Reilly had slipped Beecher a hefty dose of angel dust right before he threw that chair through the glass.  Supposedly, the shit was so potent that Beecher would be howling at the moon for the rest of his life.  Schillinger didn't doubt that it was true.  God only knew what the stupid prag had been snorting and swallowing by the end of it all, and anyone could see what a sloppy mess Beecher had become before the riot.  Still, he suspected that some of Beecher's erratic behavior (okay, most of it) was his fault.  Even that spic Sister Pete hadn't needed to point that out to him.  But Jesus, it had been so much fun to squash that soft, stuck-up Harvard lawyer under the heel of his boot!  It wasn't so much what Beecher was as a person that made it such a delight; it was more what Beecher represented that he liked seeing destroyed.  The little maggot had all that money, all those brains, and had lived an easy, privileged life up until then... and Schillinger had never had any of it.  Ever.  None of that made what he did to Beecher right, perhaps, but it had fueled him enough to make the torture slow, humiliating, and painful... and enjoyable.  But one drug had led to another, and one thing had led to another.  Now, the tables were turned and he found himself with his dick in his hand while Beecher relentlessly taunted him, promising that he would find a way to fuck up his parole no matter what it took.

Yeah, the whole thing was a godforsaken disgrace, but the worst part was accepting that his jizz had not been taken from him by any of these people. No, he had surrendered it for the hope of freedom and possibility of getting back to his boys and helping them get their own shitty lives back on track. He had been in here for five years because he had been trying to keep them from going down that path, but those twelve nigger-lovers in the jury box and that nigger-loving judge hadn't seen it that way.  He wanted prove to them, to his piece of shit father, and most of all to himself that he could get it back together again... get them all  back together again.  It was either that or keeping his reputation alive here in Oz.

_The real question is what you're going to do with these feelings if, by chance, you aren't paroled, Vernon._

He grit his teeth and tried to ignore the sound of the stupid cunt's voice in his head.

_Sing a song of Schillinger, sing it loud and long....._

He stopped in his tracks, screwed his eyes shut, clenched one hand into a fist and forced himself to remember that the bug's rhyme was not a threat, but just the idiotic ramblings of another crazy fuck in Oz who should have been shipped to prison's psych ward long ago.

_Those fucking boys of yours are fucking out of control!  Drugs all the time and they're stealing from me to pay for 'em!_

Schillinger growled in sheer frustration and punched his own palm.  Fuck Sister Spic's question, fuck Bitcher and his stupid rhymes, and fuck his old man who never believed in him anyway!  Fuck them all and fuck having jizz!

He would get paroled, damn it!

He _had_ to!

 

 

 

  
2.  A DIFFERENT TACTIC

It took a couple of minutes for him to regroup, but then Schillinger was back to walking with his face set and his head up.  _Come on, Vern,_ he told himself, you can do it. _Just keep it wrapped up as tight as you can for three more weeks.  Three little weeks.  One day at a time.  One hour at a time, if necessary. Eyes on the prize, guy._

As he crossed the threshold of Em City and saw the glass pods looming above him, he felt a peculiar sense of loss.  Once upon a time, he had walked around this place like he had owned it.  Now, especially in these weeks after it had been reopened, he wasn't sure who owned it anymore.  It wasn't himself anymore, but perhaps that was for the best.  Part of making parole and also making it on the outside after parole was not getting too attached.  Getting attached brought on a feeling of ownership and that feeling of ownership was what kept you coming back to places like Oz.  And the other thing about ownership was that after a certain point, it wasn't you who owned the place but rather the place that owned you.  At that moment, you realized you there forever, like it or not.  What was the word that those bigshot pinkos like McManus and the spic shrink would have used? _Institutionalized._ Yeah, that was it.  Gotta stay away from that shit.

A group of people were clustered around the TV watching Miss Sally jiggle.  That old fat guy that called himself The Mole sat among them looking smitten.  They had put him with Rebadow, Em City's other resident geezer who claimed to hear from God all the time. Now, that was a guy who was institutionalized and probably as crazy as Beecher, but at least he was quiet and unassuming most of the time.  He regarded the two of them for a minute with a sense of warmth that was quite unlike him.  It was remarkable how those two had become fast friends.  He felt a prick of envy at that moment and couldn't help but wonder who were his own friends?  Whom did he sit around and shoot the shit with?  But he knew.  There wasn't anybody.  He was too busy leading the Brotherhood to really have anyone like that in his life, not even his own sons.  And of course, the trouble with being a leader of any kind in here was that you couldn't trust anyone that much.  Someone else was always wanting to snatch your crown.  You had to keep your enemies closer than your friends... that was if you had any in the first place.  And although he thought they were beneath him, he was sure that applied to Adebisi, to Alvarez, and even probably to McManus and Glynn as well.

 _Let it go,_ his mind told him.  _You're getting attached again._

Schillinger sighed.  Jesus, this was going to be a hard day.

Almost as if on cue, he heard the familiar shuffle of speedwalking feet coming up behind him and he was instantly awash in dread.

_Aw, fuck!  Please not now!_

"Hiya Vern, ol' buddy ol' pal!" hailed Beecher as he fell into step with Schillinger.  His lips were pulled back in a nasty grin. "Wanna come and watch Miss Sally's Schoolyard with us?  It's great!  She's talking all about sharing today!  I just love sharing, don't you?  In fact, I love it so much that I can hardly wait to share some things about you with the parole board courtesy of your psych file!"  He had said all of that in one breath and still managed to punctuate it with a short chuckle.

 _Don't say a word,_ Vern told himself.  _Keep walking._

"Gee, you're awfully quiet today," commented Beecher as they began to ascend the stairs.  "Whatsa matter, Vern?  Rough session with Sister Pete?  Did she make you tell her about that time when you were a little boy and one of the counselors at the Hitler Youth day camp touched you in that special place?"

 _Keep it wrapped tight,_ Vern!  his mind cautioned.  _Don't fucking blow it!_

Beecher patted Schillinger's back just below his shoulder.  "Don't worry, buddy.  I'll say something to her when I get to work today.  Something like: 'Thanks Sister!  You're the best!'"

Schillinger remained silent, but closed his eyes and imagined how good — how splendid— it would feel to squeeze the life out of this asshole.  Just strangle him until his face went purple and his eyes bulged.

"Oh hey," Beecher went on, "I know just how you feel, Vern. It's such a hard thing to forgive your attacker when what you really wanna do is _fucking airhole 'em!_ "

As Beecher's voice transformed into an awful mixture of a hiss and a growl, Schillinger felt a grinding, digging punch in the back just above his left kidney.  He yelped, thinking that the bug had finally whipped out his stinger and used it.  His hand instinctively went to his back and he expected to feel dampness and a throbbing focus of pain where the blade had gone in.  When he brought his hand back, he saw that it was dry and sighed with relief. Beecher was cackling wildly and holding up a fist with the knuckle of the middle finger pushed up a bit higher than the rest.

Schillinger lost his cool right then.  " _You goddamn motherfucking piece of shit!_ " he roared as he prepared to shove Beecher down the stairs they had just climbed.

"Hey!"  Mineo hollered from the guards' station.  "I don't care who stawded it, I'll trow botha yaz inna hole if I hear anudda sound from eeda wanna ya!"

All eyes were on Mineo, and then on the two of them.  Nothing happened.  No guards rushed over to separate or subdue anyone, so card games were returned to, traffic around Em City resumed, and Miss Sally once again became the center of the two geezers' attention .

Schillinger drew in a deep breath and pushed it out quickly.  He started to head back to his pod, hoping that Beecher would fuck off now.

No such luck.

"Oh, that was messy, Vern," Beecher said, shaking his head and clucking his tongue a few times.  "Good thing a hack was there to put a halt to it. That could've turned into a real kerfuffle, huh?"

Schillinger stopped. Maybe it was time to try another approach because ignoring the problem sure as hell wasn't making it go away.  Rightly or wrongly, it was really the only other sane option. What harm could it possibly do?  He turned and met Beecher's manic, furious stare.  "What do you want from me, Beecher?" he demanded. "Just tell me what it's going to take to get you to just leave me the fuck alone and I'll do it.  What do you want?  An apology?"

Beecher's eyebrows went down and he tilted his head to the side.  "Hmmm," he hummed.  A second later he was upright again. He shrugged.  "Could help."

"Fine," Schillinger huffed.  "I'm sorry.  Better now?"

Beecher looked disappointed.  "Now, Vern, that didn't sound very sincere to me," he said.  "Is that really the best you can do after all we've been through together?" Once again, the last few words came out from between his teeth in that grating, hostile whisper again.

Schillinger sighed and rubbed his hands over his head.  This was worse than being called on the carpet by the spic shrink.  But he was right; it wasn't the best he could do.  He looked up, took one step forward, and tried again. "Toby, I want to apologize," he said very calmly.  "I brutalized you, I embarrassed you, and I drove you to extreme measures in order to cope with it too.  I've probably harmed you and the people who care about you in ways that I don't even know through my actions, and for all of it I am truly sorry."

He watched Beecher's face.  The veins in his forehead disappeared under the skin and the malicious gleam in his eyes flickered out.  Beecher blinked once very slowly, swallowed, and folded his arms.  His gaze went to the floor.  For a moment, Schillinger could almost see the soft little weakling Beecher had been when he'd first laid eyes on him.  It was funny how at that instant even he almost felt convinced of what he was saying.

At last, Beecher drew in a breath and shook his head.  "Nope," he said looking back up at Schillinger.  "That didn't do it."

"Oh, fuck you!"  Schillinger threw his arms up in exasperation as Beecher offered him a sticky smile.  "Jesus H. Christ, Beecher! I mean, of all the people in Oz, I'd think you'd be thrilled to see the last of me!  So why don't you just let me get paroled and I'll be out of your fucking life?"

Beecher's smile collapsed.  "You'll be what?"  he asked coldly.  "You'll be out of my life? Is that what you just said to me?"  His lip curled up into a snarl.

"Yeah,"  Schillinger replied. "Don't you want that?"

Beecher started to laugh, and Schillinger knew that what was coming next was going to be ugly.   As Beecher advanced one step closer, he puffed up his chest and raised his chin, bracing himself for the oncoming torrent of nursery rhymes and flying spit.

"Listen to me, you stupid pile of white trash dogshit," Beecher hissed. "If you think that just walking out of here is going to fix anything, then you're the dumbest fuck in Oz.  Either that, or you think I am.  Either way, fuck you Vern!  I'm never gonna be free of you, you fucking troglodyte!  I'm a shell of a man because of you!  I can't wipe my own ass without remembering how I had to stuff a whole wad of toilet paper up in there after the first or second you fucked up the ass so that you and the rest of your fucking Brotherhood didn't ask me if it was my time of the month!  Hell, I can't even wash my own ass without being reminded of our first night together, sweetpea!  The whole time I was signing my divorce papers, all I could think about was screaming for permission from you to fuck my own wife!  Between that and the 'good luck fuck' you gave me right before she arrived, I couldn't even touch her!  Every time I think of my own children, I'm filled with guilt not only because I'm not there to see them grow up, but also because you made me tear up the only pictures I had of them!  And never mind whatever I had going for me outside of Oz, Vern!  I can't pick up a fucking tray of food in the cafeteria without remembering how you told me I couldn't eat if anything on it touched!  Every time I get one of those shitty bologna sandwiches that they give us at lunch, all I can think about is how you would spit a loogie into it and make me eat it anyway!  And if I didn't eat it fast enough, you took it right out of my mouth and threw it in the trash!   Remember that?  Of course, I did get to eat the first time you did that to me because you force-fed me the pages of a law book later that afternoon too!  How 'bout that time, huh Vern?  Oh, and being made to wear make-up and women's clothes was bad, but not nearly as bad as the time you stuck my face in the toilet and made me stick my own finger down my throat and throw up so that I didn't get too fat for my grand performance at the Oz talent show!  Do you remember all that, Vern-o?  'Cause believe me, I can't fucking forget it! And you think that your piss-poor apology and walking out of Oz is going to just make that all go away? _Fuck! You! Asshole!_ "

Beecher's finger jabbed at the air in front of Schillinger's face as he said the last three words.  His voice had not gotten any louder, but his face was now contorted into frightening shape.  Again, the whole thing had come out in one breath, and it had been overwhelming.  Schillinger couldn't help thinking that if fire could have shot from Beecher's eyes, he would have been a charred skeleton by the end of that tirade.  And yet in spite of the chill he felt crawl down his back, Schillinger kept his face stony and unemotional.

"And you think that you're going to be happy by keeping me here?"  he asked.  "If so, then you're fucking crazier than any of the others could guess!"  He knew he was leading with his chin a bit, but for some reason he just couldn't stop himself.

"Happy?" Beecher's eyebrows rose in surprise, and then a creepy smile broke across his face. "Oh, I don't give a fuck about being happy.  I gave up on happy long ago.  Now, I only give a fuck about being even these days."

"You'd bring yourself down with me,  you fool," Schillinger said, hoping to either instill fear or reignite common sense.

Beecher didn't even flinch.  "Maybe... maybe not."

Schillinger raised one eyebrow.  "Oh please.  You really think you can to wallow in the shit with me and come out smelling like a rose, dumb ass?"

"Only one way to find out."  The menacing grin spread wider.  "Nice thing about being crazy is that I don't give a fuck one way or the other.  I've got nothing left to lose.  How about you, asshole?  Can you say the same?"

Schillinger's eyebrow fell back into place and he felt something inside him get warm... a little too warm, in fact.  He looked into the other man's eyes and began to realize this wasn't just another meaningless nursery rhyme or an appalling display of insane behavior.  Beecher fucking meant it; he really didn't care.  No amount of talking was going to deter him from his course. He was going to go through with it, cost what it may.  Hell, by now he may have already gotten started and doctored his psych file.  And if not?  Well, Beecher was clearly intent on antagonizing him until he blew up and did something stupid.  Any fool could figure that out.  The problem was that the crazy son of a bitch was right; he did still have something to lose.  The thought of his sons out there on the street destroying themselves and the lives of total strangers was too awful too contemplate, but thanks to his own fucking heartless father scraping them off like scabs, that was exactly what they were going to be doing.  Was he now just going to let that keep happening over a prag who had snapped and now had a hair across his ass?

It didn't matter because he could tell just by the look in Beecher's eyes that it was on, like it or not.

Beecher looked at his bare wrist and his mouth opened in mock surprise.  "Oh, look at the time!  Gotta get to work now.  Files are waiting, including yours."

Schillinger winced as Beecher patted him on the cheek twice, and then watched with his mouth agape as Beecher's eyes went wide and glassy and his mouthed turned up in a moony grin.

" _And noooooooow 'til we meet agaaaaaaaaaaaaain,_ " Beecher sang as he bounced in place.  It was the sugary-sweet [closing song of the old Lawrence Welk Show](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i8FJaQbJoTs).  " _Adios... Au revoir... Auf wiederseheeeeeeeeeeeeeen!  Goodbye!_ "  He concluded his performance with a flick of his middle finger, and then shoved his way past Schillinger who had found himself unable to move from the spot where he stood, even when the bell went off signaling that it was time for him to get to the mailroom for his own job.

 

 

 

3.  'TIL DEATH DO US PART

Schillinger was supposed to be looking for contraband on the monitor of the x-ray machine, but he was so lost in his own thoughts that a hand grenade or two could have slipped by him and he wouldn't have even noticed.  He looked over at Howell and asked her if he could step away for a couple of minutes because his eye was hurting him.  Howell, who was normally a slave-driving bitch, simply nodded.  That was nothing shy of a minor miracle on a shitty day like this.  Schillinger signaled for Robson to take his place and then walked over to the other side of the room.  He leaned against the wall and closed his eyes, pretending to wait for the discomfort to pass.  He knew he wouldn't have long; Howell was not going to let him or anyone else milk her for an ounce of leniency more than she was willing to give.  Of course, he was really mulling over his next move, which he knew he would have to make soon.

While skeletal images had drifted by on the screen in front of him, he had been thinking about another prag he had back in Lardner.  He was a young, arrogant punk named Chris Keller who'd been arrested for second-degree assault and possession of a controlled substance.  He was only seventeen, but he was a tough little dude.  Mouthy as hell.  Swaggered everywhere he went.  With that kind of an attitude, it was no wonder that they had tried him as an adult.  It had been fun to squash him too, mostly because he was green and naïve yet thought he had the world by the balls just like every other teenager out there.  But Keller had taken it like a champ. When he wasn't squirming under Schilliniger's thumb or stuffing his mouth with Schillinger's cock, he was logging a lot of gym time and learning the confidence game from experts.   Four years later, he had sauntered out of Lardner a black belt con artist.   His body had gotten bigger, his wits had gotten keener, and his charm had gotten a lot more irresistible.  Schillinger realized that last point once people he didn't even know had started coming to his cell looking for payback on favors that he was positive he didn't owe.  It made him mad, but in the center of the outrage was a small particle of respect for the cunning little shit.

What had been the difference with that guy?   It had all begun with Keller the same way it had with Beecher, hadn't it?  He'd saved some new fish from getting nigger-fucked and made him his slave.  However, Keller had hardened instead of snapping the way Beecher had.  Why?  Was it because they had come from opposite sides of the law?  Was it because Beecher was a college man and had a family?  Was it because Keller was younger and apparently liked to suck dick?  Maybe the difference had been himself.  When Keller had been his bitch, Schillinger had been in his thirties and had a full head of hair that was trimmed into a tight crewcut.  He'd been lean and strong too, and his tattoos were vibrant and fresh.  Now, with the fifty-year mile marker way behind him, he'd gotten a little looser in the cage, a little balder, and little paler somehow.  Did that mean he had gotten soft too?  He didn't think so, but he knew it could be.  He had once overheard Rebadow say that  growing older wasn't for pussies.  If that wasn't a true statement coming from a guy who knew, then there was no such thing.

All this time on Memory Lane was interesting, but it didn't change the fact that a  decision had to be made.  Oh, who was he kidding?  It had already been made.  Beecher was going to have to die.  There was just no other way around it.

But how?

 _What the fuck do you mean 'how'?_ his frazzled mind demanded. _What kind of stupid question is that, Vern?  You really want to throw away even a chance at getting out of here on account of that sick fuck?  Is it really worth it?_

It wasn't and he knew it, but the problem was he had no way of knowing when Beecher was going to make his move... not if, but when.  Because he was going to.  No bullshit about it.  He also didn't even know what his next move was even going to be, which was just as maddening.  Beecher's plan may have been nothing more complex than just keep antagonizing him until he finally snapped.  It seemed a more plausible strategy than the possibility that Beecher was going to mess with his file.  After all, what kind of moron would purposefully spill the beans on a plan like that? Especially to the chump who's supposed to be the victim of such an attack?

 _Don't be stupid, Vern,_ a more level-headed and calculating part of his mind answered.  _You know why he's doing it.  It's not just about riling you up so that you'll kill him to stop him.  It's also about making you so buggy about it that even if you decide not to kill him, you'll still be so wound up about it when you walk into that parole hearing that you'll be too panicky to give appropriate answers. See?  It's all a mindfuck._

Schillinger saw, but that didn't make it any easier to accept.

 _Well, duh!  Someone's trying to destroy you, Vern!_   this part responded.  _Accepting it isn't the problem.  The problem is what are you going to do about it?_

He ground his teeth together and screwed his eyes shut.  It produced a nasty stinging pain in the corner of the eye that was still discolored and tender.  As awful as it was, it beat feeling helpless and overwhelmed.  What was the word the spic shrink had used?  _Emasculated._ Yeah, much better than that too.

Seeing his father on the other side of the glass telling him that he basically didn't care if his own grandchildren lived or died had been awful.  He knew the infants that he had seen come into this world were long gone and that they were fucked up young men now, but unlike another fucked up young man named Tobias Beecher, they might still be reachable somehow.  True, he hadn't been the greatest father in the world, and yes, he had settled arguments with them using physical force when they were still too young to properly defend themselves.  But Christ, if those losers in AA could right their family wrongs by making amends, why couldn't he?  Wasn't the hope for that enough to keep him on track no matter what Beecher did or didn't do?  Did he really have to dance like a puppet just because Beecher was trying to pull his strings?

 _Want to find out what's going to happen if you do nothing instead?_ asked the tougher part of his mind.

No, he did not.

_Then stop sitting there with your thumb up your butt and get your fucking balls back!_

Yes, he supposed he had to now.  All these mental gymnastics were nothing more than stalling techniques, but the question he had been pondering from the start, which was how to do it, was still eluding him.  There were probably a hundred ways to make it look like an accident, but time was of the essence.  He only had three weeks after all.

 _Maybe you're asking the wrong question_.

He opened his eyes and furrowed his brow.

_That's right Vern.  It's not how you should do it but who you should get to do it that you need to be considering._

Schillinger quickly scanned the mailroom.  Robson was unfailingly loyal and too much of a hothead to ask questions or consider consequences, so he seemed like the best choice.  But then again, he might not do it.  After all, he had already gotten a taste of the crazy maniac Beecher had become.

_More like Beecher got a taste of him._

He couldn't help it.  He sputtered and laughter came barreling out of his chest.

 "Well, lookit who's clearly feeling better now!" bellowed that cunt Howell.  "Get your ass back to work!"

Schillinger held up a hand and nodded, but the smile never left his face.  He needed to smile; it felt like such a long time since he had reason to do so.

 "What's so funny?" Robson asked.

 _Poor son of a bitch,_ Schillinger thought and grit his teeth to keep from laughing out loud.  The smile?  Fuck, why hide it?  He needed a laugh.

But he also needed a plan still.

 _Well, at least you're on the right track,_ his mind said.   _You're going to have to get someone to do it and do it fast.  The Brotherhood may do it for you for free, and they may not.  Either way get ready to pay if you have to.  And if you have to look elsewhere, do it.  Suck it up and ask the niggers or the wops if it comes to that.  Hell, go to the faggots if you need to, but get someone on board as quick as you can.  Time's a wastin'!_

Not realizing he was doing it, Schillinger nodded in agreement.

_And hey, if worst comes to worst, there's always Plan X._

He stopped and furrowed his brow again.  _What's Plan X?_

_Think, Vern… Who killed Scott Ross in the riot?_

Schillinger's smile broadened and it also felt more natural.

Maybe all was not lost after all.


End file.
